


Happy We'll Be

by stelladora



Category: BioShock
Genre: Alcohol, Drunkenness, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-05
Updated: 2016-01-18
Packaged: 2018-04-30 03:24:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5148473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stelladora/pseuds/stelladora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I’m just…not a good dancer,” Atlas confessed, a little bashful.<br/>“It’s not about the dancing,” Jack said, tightening his embrace as he stumbled just a little, betraying how drunk he was. “It’s about being close to somebody else.”</p><p>Atlas, a protester and suspected socialist, meets a drunk (not to mention flirtatious) young man at a bar. Things get complicated when that man turns out to be Andrew Ryan's son.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Regret it in the Morning

“You look sad.”

Atlas hadn’t noticed the young man sitting at the barstool next to him until he spoke. The young man was pouting sympathetically at him, and Atlas got a sneaking suspicion that he was drunk. Nevertheless, he didn’t want to be rude.

“Not sad, exactly, just thinking,” Atlas clarified.

The young man laughed—practically giggled—showing white teeth and a charming smile. Atlas wondered how much he’d already had to drink. “This isn’t the best place for that, is it?”

He was right—the club was noisy and fairly crowded. In the warm light, couples danced to the jazzy tune being played by the band on the small stage. All around were people in good spirits; talking, laughing, flirting with one another. Perhaps that was precisely the reason Atlas had come here to think: it was so much easier to melt into a crowd than to remain alone. Rapture had felt so lonely lately. Regardless of that, the young man had torn Atlas from his reverie, and was looking at him with an unselfconscious, slightly dopey grin. “Maybe you’re right,” Atlas conceded.

“I am,” the young man asserted sagely, nodding his head. “What are you drinking?”

Atlas looked down at the dregs of dark liquid in the now-warm glass in front of him. “Whiskey. Or it was.”

The young man wrinkled his nose in distaste before turning his head away to catch the eye of the bartender. The young man held up two fingers, and the bartender nodded. “I’ve got something better for you. I made the recipe _myself_ and it’s _fantastic_ ,” he boasted.

The stranger was amicable—at leas while tipsy—and Atlas couldn’t help but smile in response to him. “You come here often, then?” he asked. Immediately it felt like a dumb question, like an overused pickup line. Atlas hoped the young man wouldn’t think of it that way. Perhaps Atlas was just overthinking things—he was suddenly nervous.

“Yes,” the young man said, swaying a little as he nodded. “I like it here. There’s always a lot of people. Most places are so lonely.”

“I know what you mean,” Atlas agreed. Their drinks arrived, and the young man clinked his glass against Atlas’ before taking a drink. Atlas did the same, slightly more warily.

The drink was smooth, with none of the harsh burning sensation that a lot of Rapture’s cheaper liquors had. It tasted pleasantly of cherries. “This is good,” Atlas said appreciatively.

“I’m glad you think so. My name’s Jack, by the way,” he said, holding out his hand with a fluid motion for a shake.

“Atlas.” He shook Jack’s hand. “Did you come here by yourself, or are you…?” he asked, trailing off the end of the question. Again, he mentally kicked himself. _That sounds creepy. Why do I keep saying the wrong thing?_

“I’m with some friends over there,” Jack said. “I actually just came over here to get another drink, but…then I saw you.”

Was this man flirting with him? Atlas laughed shyly, hoping he wasn’t misinterpreting the situation. _He probably didn’t mean it like that. Besides, he’s drunk. I’m sure he’ll be embarrassed about this in the morning,_ he thought. However, he couldn’t help being flattered. “And you thought you’d try to cheer up this sad old man?” he asked jokingly.

Jack smiled at that. “You’re not old. But you did look awfully depressed.”

“Jack, what’s keeping you?” A young woman approached the bar, evidently a friend of his. She put her arm around him, and Jack leaned into the touch, smiling up at her. Her gold dress glittered in the dim light, eye-catching.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” Jack said, pouting at her playfully.

She absentmindedly carded her manicured nails through Jack’s sandy hair as she glanced at Atlas. “Who’s your friend?” she asked.

Jack took another sip of his drink. “Eva, this is Atlas. Atlas, Eva,” he said, gesturing nonspecifically as he made introductions.

“Hi,” the girl said politely, clearly not actually interested in Atlas. “Everybody’s wondering where you got to. Come back and join us. Bring your friend,” Eva suggested.

“I’m fine here. I’ll be back in a bit,” Jack said dismissively, throwing a smile at Atlas.

Eva pouted theatrically. “Fine, but we’re going to have fun without you,” she warned as she made her way through the scattering of tables back to a booth along the farther wall.

“Don’t you want to go sit with your friends?” Atlas asked when she was out of earshot. Surely they were a better choice than sitting with a strange older man.

Jack shook his head, rolling his eyes. “They’re all so…” he huffed, unable to find the words. “Besides, you seem interesting. Not to mention, I bought you a drink so now you owe me a dance,” he said with a mischievous grin.

Atlas laughed at that. “I don’t owe you anything,” he asserted. “I never asked you to buy me a drink, did I? Besides, I’m not finished with it yet,” he said, gently swirling the remaining liquid around in his short glass.

Jack laughed as well. “Funny how you claim to not have wanted the drink but still want to finish it,” he pointed out, leaning in closer to Atlas, swaying just a little as he did.

“Maybe I’m just trying to find an excuse,” Atlas suggested playfully.

That earned a melodramatic gasp from Jack. “You mean you don’t want to dance with me? I’m offended,” he said with an exaggerated frown.

“Go sit with your friends, then. I’m sure one of them would be willing to dance with you,” Atlas pointed out. _Eva seemed especially keen on you_ , he wanted to add, but he restrained himself.

Jack wrinkled his nose in displeasure, then took another drink, leaning over the counter a little bit. “So. What do you do?” he asked Atlas.

“I work at the fisheries,” Atlas said simply. He tactfully left out the political rallies and charity groups he’d lately started organizing; not everyone would take kindly to that, he knew. “What about you? No, wait, let me guess,” he said quickly, sizing Jack up. The young man was well-dressed in clothes that looked fairly expensive. Atlas surely wasn’t as destitute as some, but it was clear by comparison that Jack was a member of Rapture’s elite. Jack just gave him a dopey smile and waited patiently. “Some sort of office job, probably. Something for the Council?”

Jack laughed, pushing himself away from the counter to sit upright. “No. You’re never going to guess it,” he said mysteriously.

That only made Atlas more determined. “Are ya…a teacher of some kind?” he asked, thinking of something as opposite as he could that would fit with Jack’s polished demeanor (or what he imagined would be polished if the young man were more sober).

Jack shook his head as he finished the last of his drink. “Strike two. Only one more guess,” he taunted.

“No, we never decided I only get three!” Atlas protested. Jack just gave him a teasing grin, and Alas furrowed his brow, finishing off his own drink as he thought. “Some kind of artist? You don’t work with Cohen, do you?” Atlas asked warily.

“No, of course not,” Jack protested as if he’d been insulted. Cohen’s notoriety had skyrocketed in the past few months. “That’s three. I’m afraid you lose,” Jack said, clapping Atlas on the shoulder as if to comfort him.

Atlas sighed, admitting defeat and trying to ignore the tingling feeling of his skin where Jack had touched him. “What is it that you do, then?”

“I work in maintenance,” Jack said matter-of-factly.

“Bullshit.” Atlas raised an eyebrow. Maintenance workers didn’t get paid enough to dress like that. And besides, the young man didn’t seem to fit Atlas’ perception of the burly, rough working men.

“It’s true, I swear,” Jack protested, laughing at Atlas’ disbelief. “Now, as punishment for your _horrible_ guessing skills,” Jack continued, leaning in closer to Atlas with fluid, almost uncontrolled movement, “you’re gonna come dance with me. And you’ve finished your drink, so you can’t use that as an excuse,” Jack pointed out quickly. He stood, waiting for Atlas to follow.

Atlas felt himself blush, and his stomach fluttered. He had to admit, Jack was charming. He found himself attracted to the young man, but was nevertheless nervous to do anything about it. _Maybe I need to drink more. Seems to have made him pretty forward_ , Atlas thought. “Alright, I suppose you’ve got me there,” he agreed. Jack took his hand—the young man’s skin felt cold against his own—and Atlas allowed himself to be led to the middle of the room, amongst the other couples swaying slowly to the crooning band. Jack draped his arms around Atlas’ shoulders, and Atlas hesitantly placed his own hands on Jack’s hips. _Is he really flirting with me? Him? He could probably have anyone here, and he’s nearly half my age, probably—why would he be flirting with me?_

“You’re a million miles away, aren’t you?”

Jack’s voice cut through Atlas’ reverie, and the man snapped back to the present, proving Jack right. They both smiled a little, and Atlas could see all the details of the young man’s face now that they were so close together. “Sorry. I’m just…not a good dancer,” Atlas confessed, a little bashful.

“It’s not about the dancing,” Jack said, tightening his embrace just a little with a grin— _He’s always smiling…or is that just because he’s drunk?_ —“It’s about being close to somebody else.”

“And you want to be close to me?” Atlas asked.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

Atlas could tell that Jack was laying the flirting on thick now, and there was no mistaking it. “I can think of a hundred reasons. The primary of which is that you are _very_ drunk,” he reminded Jack gently, wondering if he should move away from the young man’s embrace. He knew he should be the responsible one and put a stop to this, but part of him undeniably enjoyed the closeness. _And it’s just dancing_ , Atlas reasoned with himself. _He won’t regret that too much in the morning, I expect._

“I’ve been drunker,” Jack said dismissively. There was silence between them for a while, just the music of the band, and the obvious feeling of their hands on each others’ bodies as they swayed in time with the other couples in the room. Jack was the first one to break the silence. “Now would be a good time for you to kiss me, you know.”

Atlas stammered out a nervous laugh at that. “I don’t think that would be the best idea,” he said. He felt the blush rising in his cheeks, and it only caused him to grow more embarrassed.

“Oi, Jack!”

The voice was a welcome intrusion, and Atlas and Jack both looked around for the source. A man in a well-tailored waistcoat and thick moustache approached them with unsteady steps, evidently one of Jack’s friends. Uncertainly, Atlas dropped the embrace and took a small step backwards.

“We’re all gonna head out. Come on. Unless you’d…rather stay,” the stranger said, giving Atlas a not-so-subtle glance over.

“I want to stay,” Jack said without any hesitation. “I’ll call you in the morning.”

“Okay,” the stranger said with a knowing grin. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” He left, giving Atlas a wink and a strong pat on the back.

“Friend of yours?” Atlas said, following Jack’s lead and resuming their embrace. Somehow he felt more comfortable now, more appreciative of the way the other man’s arms felt around him. Jack just nodded. “You would really rather spend time with a complete stranger than with your friends?” Atlas asked.

“You’re not a complete stranger,” Jack protested. “I know a lot about you now.”

Atlas laughed. “We only met, what, an hour ago?”

“Yeah, but I’m _very_ observant,” Jack said with mock seriousness. “For instance, I know that you work in the fisheries—”

“You didn’t _observe_ that, I told you!”

“Nevertheless! And I know you’re Irish—don’t roll your eyes at me, why are you rolling your eyes?—and that you live alone…”

“How do you know I live alone?” Atlas asked, genuinely surprised for a moment.

“You don’t have a wedding ring on,” Jack pointed out in a sing-song voice. “And you were pretty quick to dance with a man you’d only just met.”

“Well maybe I have roommates,” Atlas pointed out.

Jack just shook his head, stumbling a little with the sudden movement. Atlas tightened his grip, steadying him. “You said that you were lonely. People with roommates don’t get lonely,” Jack said, evidently proud of himself for deducing it. “Am I right, or am I right?”

“I suppose you have a point,” Atlas acquiesced. “What else do you know about me?”

“I know that part of the reason you’re so lonely is because you never initiate anything,” Jack said bluntly. ( _Maybe it’s the alcohol that’s making him so bold. Is he going to get home alright?_ ) Atlas looked a little taken aback at that, and stammered out an incoherent response. “See? That’s what I mean,” Jack said. “I’ve been doing all the work tonight,” he said, pouting dramatically. He wasn’t able to keep up the façade of being offended for long, and his face broke into a smile as he rested his head on Atlas’ shoulder. “You ought to be more confident. You’re a good-looking guy.”

Atlas smiled bashfully, feeling his heart skip a beat as he held Jack closer to him. “Thanks.”

They danced for a while longer, swaying gently to the slow music until the song finished. Somewhere a camera bulb flashed, but Atlas hardly noticed. He was preoccupied with the feeling of Jack’s hands around his neck, and the way the young man’s cologne smelled. “It’s getting late,” Atlas pointed out, uncertain of why he’d decided to say it—he found that he didn’t really want to be parted from the young man.

Jack nodded, pulling away from him. Atlas felt cold in the absence of his embrace. “I don’t want to go home,” he confessed with a smile.

“Why not?” Atlas asked.

“It’s lonely there and…I just don’t like it,” Jack mumbled, either from embarrassment or drunkenness. Atlas understood how he felt. His own apartment was awfully empty and dark, and the prospect of returning to it wasn’t enticing. “And I am a little…stumble-y,” Jack added with a giggle as the two made their way slowly from the dance floor.

Atlas put an arm out to steady him. “You could come to my place,” he suggested hesitantly. _What if he takes it the wrong way? What if he thinks I’m taking advantage of him? What if he regrets it in the morning?_ “Just to sleep, mind. It’s fairly close, I mean, so you wouldn’t have to traipse through the city like this,” he added, blushing.

Jack beamed at him, taking his arm as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “I would be honored,” he said teasingly. “Do you want to go now, or should we have one more drink?”

Atlas laughed, glad that Jack was taking it so well. _That’s just the alcohol talking. He’ll wake up tomorrow horribly embarrassed. This is a mistake._ “I think you’ve had enough.”

“You are probably right,” Jack allowed. They made their way to the door, Jack shuffling his feet a little and still clinging to Atlas’ arm. A few people gave them odd looks as they made their way down the now dimly-lit street, but Atlas tried to ignore them. They went along in silence for a while, until Jack began humming a tune, staring out the glass walls at the dark water. “Happy we’ll be, beyond the sea…” he sang quietly. “Y’know, I don’t understand why they play that song all the time. I mean, we _know_ we’re underwater. No one’s forgotten that, so why is everything in this goddamn place _underwater_ -themed?” he asked testily.

Atlas just shrugged. “It’s a nice song, at least. And maybe for some people, the novelty hasn’t worn off yet.”

“Yeah, well, I wish sometimes that people would stop being so _obvious_ and _predictable_. Everyone wants to do the _obvious_ thing, not the _interesting_ thing,” Jack pointed out, his argument made passionate by the alcohol.

“Are you always this eloquent while drunk?” Atlas asked, amused.

Jack laughed, giving Atlas’ arm a squeeze. “I suppose that’s just how I was raised. Always ready to voice my distaste with society. And that’s what I don’t like about Eva and Mark and all them,” Jack continued, his brow furrowing. Atlas assumed he was speaking of his friends, and let him vent. “They all always just accept whatever’s given to them. They don’t _think_ about things, they just agree because that’s easier.”

The young man scowled, and Atlas wasn’t sure how to respond. He hadn’t had many of these problems lately, as he found himself with few close friends. He was on good terms with a few folks from work, and went out with them once and a while, but nothing too intimate. Part of the reason Rapture felt so lonely, probably. “I think that happens to people no matter what. It’s safer, in a way. Like a way of coping.” _God knows people have a hell of a lot to cope with down here,_ Atlas thought.

Jack made a sound of disgust as he rolled his eyes, but made no further response. The two walked on in companionable silence, Jack’s arm looped through Atlas’, leaning on him just a little as they walked. As they made their way through the dimly-lit corridor of glass and steel, Jack threw a glance over his shoulder. “Thought somebody was following us,” he muttered, tightening his grip on Atlas’ arm.

“I’ve had that feeling since I arrived here,” Atlas said dryly. “Come on. I have a feeling you need to sit down,” he added with a small chuckle. It was amusing to see someone so well-groomed stumbling so much. Jack laughed, and they walked arm-in-arm to Atlas’ apartment. They climbed the stairs—a slow endeavor, in Jack’s case. They made it up to Atlas’ door, and he dropped the younger man’s arm in order to unlock it and usher them inside.

“Sorry about the mess,” he said sheepishly as he turned on lights and made a half-hearted effort at tidying up. “I wasn’t really expecting company.”

Jack looked around, smiling and apparently oblivious to any subpar housekeeping. “I like your place,” he said with a little smile on his face. The apartment was, for the most part, one large room with archways rather than doors, giving it an enclosed and comfortable feeling. “It’s very homey.” Atlas watched him as he looked around at everything, and tried to see his apartment as if for the first time. It wasn’t bad; it had all the necessities and was fairly clean, but Atlas couldn’t help but think that this must be a stark contrast to the places Jack and his friends were used to.

Atlas chuckled, a bit nervous. The apartment was far from pristine—it had the benefit of being in his price range, and that was about it—but he appreciated Jack’s honest effort at cheering him up. “Thanks. You probably ought to have some water before you sleep, yeah?” he suggested, making his way to the kitchen.

Jack followed him like a puppy, albeit with more stumbling and shuffling. Atlas filled a glass and handed it to him, and Jack drank the water carefully.

“So,” Jack began after swallowing, “you meet a man at a club—a _ravishingly_ handsome man, I might add—and succeed in bringing him back to your apartment, and all you want to do is give him some water and send him off to bed?” he asked teasingly.

Atlas couldn’t help blushing. “What else am I supposed to do? I mean, you—”

“You could start by kissing me,” Jack pointed out.

Atlas suddenly realized just how close they were standing and took a step back, chuckling nervously. “You’re drunk. Maybe some other time.” He wanted to kiss Jack, he _really_ did, but more than that, he wanted Jack to not regret it in the morning. If the young man was going to wake up in his apartment, Atlas wanted it to be as painless as possible for the both of them.

Jack gave him a knowing grin. “I’ll hold you to that,” he said in a sing-song voice.

“You won’t even remember in the morning,” Atlas said. “Come on. We both need sleep.” It was nearing one-thirty in the morning, according to the clock on the wall in the living room. Atlas led the way to the bedroom as Jack leaned on his arm. Atlas wondered just how much Jack needed help walking and how much of it was a desire to be close, to tease him. “Here we are. Bathroom’s right there, if you need it. And if you vomit in my bed, you’re cleaning it up yourself,” he warned. Jack giggled, slipping off his suit jacket and leaving it on the dresser. “I’ll be out there if you need me for anything,” Atlas finished, moving to leave as Jack continued disrobing.

“You’re not gonna stay?” Jack asked forlornly, freezing in the middle of taking off his tie.

Atlas shook his head. “You seem like the type who’d kick a lot in his sleep. I’ll take the sofa.”

Jack giggled at that and resumed undressing. “Thank you for letting me stay. This is much more better than staying at one of my friend’s places,” he said, sinking down clumsily to sit on the bed and remove his shoes.

“Why do you spend time with them at all if you hate them so much?” Atlas asked, eyeing Jack carefully and hoping the young man wouldn’t be needing any help to undress. That was more intimate than he thought advisable.

“It’s not that I _hate_ them,” Jack explained. “Sometimes they’re fun. But whenever we start talking about anything serious, they all start sounding like those goddamn propaganda recordings, you know?” Jack scoffed. “Sometimes I think _they_ should be Ryan’s kids, not me.”

Atlas felt his body freeze, and his mouth dropped open. “Wait, what? You’re…?”

Jack looked up from the buttons of his shirt. “Oh, you didn’t know?” he asked nonchalantly. “I thought everybody knew.”

Now that the idea was in his mind, Atlas could see that Jack did bear a resemblance to the young man who stood by Ryan’s side in press photos. ‘Jack Ryan, heir to Rapture Industries,’ the newspapers called him. Atlas had occasionally wondered how nepotism factored into Ryan’s ideas of free market and self-reliance, but other than that, he’d never given Ryan’s son a thought, other than a vague, directionless hatred for the dynasty that oppressed the people of Rapture. And here was the man himself, sitting on Atlas’ bed, undressing and trying to seduce him. This certainly complicated things. “No, I…I didn’t know,” Atlas finally managed to say.

“Well I hope you’re not thinking of kicking me out now, because I don’t think I’d be able to do up my buttons again,” Jack confessed with a smile, shrugging his dress shirt off to reveal the white undershirt beneath it.

“No, no, you can stay. I just…you know, didn’t expect…” Atlas trailed off, feeling embarrassed now. _Can I really allow him to stay, knowing who he is? What would people say? Does this make me a hypocrite? No…Jack isn’t like him. He’s nice._

Jack laughed a little at him and lay back on the bed. “Surprise,” he said with a little sing-song voice.

Atlas managed a nervous laugh at that. “I’ll let you sleep, then, I suppose. Goodnight, Mr. Ryan,” he said teasingly as he turned to go.

“Don’t start with that shit,” Jack warned, mumbling as he buried his face in a pillow.

Atlas just smiled, turned out the lights, and headed for the sofa, an uneasy feeling building in his stomach.


	2. Morning After

It was as dark when he woke as it was when he fell asleep. That was one of the things Atlas couldn’t get used to: the total darkness outside all the windows, beyond the garish neon marquees. This far down, there wasn’t even an echo of sunlight.

Atlas turned on a few lights, careful not to wake Jack who was, unsurprisingly, still fast asleep. It was after nine o’clock—later than Atlas generally began his day—before he tentatively entered the bedroom, quietly collecting his clothes and heading for the bathroom, which was adjacent to the bedroom, in order to shower. He couldn’t resist a glance at Jack, and he was relieved to see that the young man seemed to be sleeping peacefully, the sheets entwined around his legs.

As he showered and shaved, Atlas debated with himself how best to handle the situation. Should he wake Jack and usher him out, or let him stay? How would Jack react to waking up in a stranger’s bed? Would he remember all the flirting he’d done last night? Should Atlas finally mention the issue of their political differences? A knot of worry began to tangle in Atlas’ stomach, and no amount of rationalizing would dispel it. He was just wiping his face with a towel when he heard Jack stirring in the other room. He embarrassedly dismissed the idea to stay in the bathroom for a while longer, hiding. Things were so much easier when Jack had just been a silly drunk kid.

Atlas didn’t say anything as he entered the bedroom, deciding to let Jack make the first move. In response to his quiet footsteps, Jack let out a quiet groan, making no move to get up or make conversation. Atlas couldn’t help but smile—this was such a drastic change from the high-spirited young man he’d met last night. _I wonder what Ryan would say if he could see him now_ , Atlas thought as he headed for the kitchen. _Nothing good, I assume. That’s probably why he didn’t want to go home._ Atlas filled another glass with water and quietly brought it to Jack, setting it on the nightstand.

“Thank you,” Jack mumbled.

“How are you feeling?” Atlas asked tentatively.

“I think I’ll live,” Jack muttered quietly, still not moving but opening his eyes. “Sorry about…everything. I generally try to make better first impressions.”

Atlas chuckled softly at that. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve dealt with worse drunks. You didn’t throw up in my bed, did you?” he asked, still keeping his voice soft while joking.

“No, thankfully. Although if I had, I probably wouldn’t feel so nauseous now.” Jack slowly moved into a sitting position, rubbing a hand over his face.

“Do you…need anything? Aspirin?” Atlas hoped he wasn’t sounding too much like an overbearing mother.

Jack managed a smile. “No thanks, Atlas. I think I’ll be going soon, actually.” Atlas’ expression faltered just a little in disappointment. He was embarrassed to realize that Jack had seen it. “Not like that—I don’t _want_ to leave, I mean, I just—I don’t want to overstay my welcome.”

“Don’t worry about it. Normally in these kind of morning-after type situations, I’d offer you breakfast, but I assume you’re not interested?” Atlas jested. The slight nausea-induced grimace on Jack’s face affirmed his assumption.

“I hope for your sake this is the worst morning-after you’ve ever had,” Jack said, the unenergetic quality of his voice a stark contrast to last night.

“At least you called me by the right name,” Atlas pointed out.

Jack laughed weakly at that. “Yikes. So, are you this nice to everyone who passes out in your bed after harassing you all evening?”

Atlas perched lightly on the foot of the bed. “No, of course not. I’m just being nice to you because you’re Andrew Ryan’s son. It’s always good to have the Prince of Rapture indebted to you, don’t you think?” he joked. He decided that telling Jack about his status as a political dissident, a parasite, would be the nail in the coffin. And for some reason, despite everything, Atlas didn’t want to part with Jack so soon.

The joke earned a small chuckle from Jack as he took a sip of the water. “I suppose it’s my princely duty to remind you that Rapture isn’t a monarchy,” he said sarcastically. “Although yes, I really am indebted to you. You’ve been better to me than I deserve.”

“I had a good time last night,” Atlas said in explanation. “Despite worrying about how well you could hold your liquor.” He laughed a little, trying to force down the embarrassment that had crept up on him.

“Better than is good for me, turns out,” Jack said. He took another sip of water then set the glass down. He was careful and slow as he rose from the bed, obviously trying to fight of the swirling sensation in his head and stomach. Atlas knew the feeling, even if it had been a while since he’d gotten that drunk. “I want to pay you back,” Jack said once he was on his feet.

“No, no, you don’t have to—” Atlas began sheepishly.

“I want to. Can I call you sometime?” Jack asked, a hopeful note in his voice that Atlas was embarrassed to find so endearing.

“Yeah, sure thing. I’ll…write the number down.” As he left the room to get a pencil and paper, he could hear Jack getting back into his shirt and jacket from last night. It didn’t take long, and Atlas soon returned with a telephone number neatly written down. “You sure you’re well enough to get all the way to Olympus Heights?” he asked as he handed it over, Jack’s cold fingers brushing over his own. Jack furrowed his brow quizzically. “That—that’s where you live, right? I’ve never been down that way myself, but I heard Ryan’s got an apartment there,” he explained.

“Oh. Yeah, he does,” Jack said. “I don’t live with him, though. Moved out when I was fifteen, got my own place,” he explained. “It’s not too far from here, I think.” He sat down on the edge of the bed to put his shoes back on, groaning a little as he moved and closing his eyes against the swirling of his head as he stood up again.

Atlas had never considered the fact that Jack wouldn’t live with his father. It made sense, now that he thought about it, though. Andrew Ryan didn’t seem like the most paternal type. “Oh. You don’t have to go, you know,” he said before he could stop himself. “I mean, I don’t want you thinking I’m pushing you out the door or anything,” he added with a chuckle.

“I’ve already imposed on you quite a bit,” Jack pointed out.

“No trouble.” Jack’s words from last night came back to him: _You ought to be more confident._ Atlas did his best. “I like you.”

It was Jack’s turn to be sheepish now. “I’m glad.” He smiled for a moment, choosing to look down at the dark wood of the floorboards rather than Atlas’ eyes. “Especially after how I behaved last night. I’m afraid I came on a little strong,” he said apologetically. Atlas recalled all of Jack’s flirting, how close they’d been while dancing, the times Jack had asked for a kiss. _I was right. He does regret it._ Atlas didn’t know what to say, so he just nodded. He was ashamed that a small, nagging part of him wished he’d gone along with Jack’s requests last night. “I really should go, though. I’m sure I’ll feel better after I wash up a little.”

“Right, sure,” Atlas said, leading the way to the door.

“I’ll call you?” Jack said it like a question. “I’d like to spend some time with you while sober. See if it’s as fun.”

Atlas smiled, pulling himself out of his own thoughts. “You’ll probably have a lot more difficult of a time getting me to dance if I haven’t had a few drinks,” Atlas pointed out jokingly.

Jack smiled. _So it wasn’t just the alcohol that made him smile so much,_ Atlas was glad to realize. “We’ll see about that,” he said. He held out his hand, more serious. Atlas took it, feeling the young man’s cold hands yet again, unable to look away from Jack’s (slightly haggard but still brilliant) brown eyes. “Thank you. You didn’t have to do all this for me.”

“I know I didn’t have to. I wanted to.”

They released the handshake, and Jack tore himself away to open the door. “See you soon, then.”

“Yeah. See you soon.”

Atlas shut the door behind him, replaying the past few hours in his head. It was certainly a strange way to meet someone. Not altogether unpleasant, though, he decided.


	3. Dinner Date

That day and the next passed uneventfully. Atlas went about his normal routine, only occasionally sparing a thought for Jack. He wondered what the young man was doing; if he’d ever gotten in contact with his friends like he said he would; how he’d spent the rest of the day while nursing that hangover;  if he was really going to call. Atlas tried not to think about that last one too much. It made him feel like some sort of giddy teenager, and he was above that, he told himself firmly. Sunday evening, however, the phone rang and jolted Atlas from his thoughts as he stood at the sink washing dishes.

“Hi, Atlas?”

It was Jack’s voice, and Atlas allowed himself a measure of unbridled happiness. “Jack, hi. How’ve you been?” he asked with forced nonchalance.

“Ah, pretty well, other than spending most of Saturday feeling like shit,” Jack replied. Atlas could nearly hear the smile in his voice. “I’m glad you didn’t give me a fake number,” he confessed.

“If I had, I wouldn’t have been able to talk to you again,” Atlas pointed out. It was much easier to be confident when Jack wasn’t in the room with him, he decided.

He could hear Jack laugh a little at that, and Atlas felt ridiculous for how much it made his stomach flutter. “I suppose you’ve got a point there. So, listen, I was hoping we could get together sometime? I need to repay you for helping me out Friday night.”

“You sure do,” Atlas joked. “Did you have anything in mind?” He hoped that keeping his tone light would prevent Jack from catching on to just how much his heart was fluttering in his chest. _Is this a date?_ he wanted to ask. He thought it best to keep silent.

“Dinner? There’s a place in High Street,” Jack’s voice said, tinny through the receiver but still warm and amicable.

Atlas had passed through High Street a few times before; it was a posh place, filled with Rapture’s upper crust. He hoped he wouldn’t stick out too much there. But if that was where Jack wanted to go, Atlas’ wouldn’t protest. “Yeah, sure, okay, that sounds great. When?”

“Are you free tomorrow night?”

“I believe so. I get off of work at six, but I’d have to stop at home. Change clothes, that sort of thing. Unless you’d prefer I smell of fish?” Atlas joked.

Jack laughed, a warm, comforting sound. Not many people in Rapture laughed as easily as Jack did. “As alluring as that sounds to me, I think other patrons might complain,” he joked.

“Ah. Wouldn’t want to get kicked out, I suppose.”

“True. How does 7:30 sound?” Jack asked.

“That’d be great.” Atlas was already thinking of what to wear, going over possible scenarios in his head, imagining what the place would be like.

“Okay. It’s a date then. Well, no, I mean—Not like, ah—You know what I mean, right?” Jack said, clearly flustered.

Atlas couldn’t help but chuckle at that, and wonder if Jack was blushing as much as he was. “Yeah, I know what you mean.” He didn’t know what Jack meant, or how to interpret their evening out, but he thought it would be best to roll with the punches.

“Good,” Jack said with a chuckle, his embarrassment evident even over the phone. “I’ll see you then.”

* * *

After work the next day, Atlas made his way home with an unusual amount of urgency. He showered and shaved again, making sure everything in his appearance was neat and presentable. He felt a little silly, fussing so much over something that may or may not have been a date, but he ignored any thoughts in that vein. It would only make him more nervous, he decided.

As he put on the rarely-worn suit that hung in his wardrobe, Atlas considered how he would go about telling Jack of his charity work, and the dissidence and rebellion that went along with it. As Andrew Ryan’s son, Jack would probably condemn him for it, say it was against the ideology of Rapture. That he was a dissident and encouraging parasites. Nothing that Atlas hadn’t been told before by people passing the soup lines he managed in places like the Drop. But hearing Jack say those things would be much harder. Strange as it was, and flustered as it made him to think about it, Atlas liked Jack. He liked him more than he liked most people in Rapture. Jack seemed like he could be a kindred spirit, despite being the heir to Rapture. Maybe he would understand. Or maybe bringing it up would ruin everything. And what would people think if they knew that Atlas, the man who so loudly claimed to be “for the people” was consorting with Andrew Ryan’s son?

Atlas shoved all those thoughts away: worrying wouldn’t help anything, and bringing up this subject would only complicate the maybe-date. He was determined to enjoy the evening, even if that meant a little deception. Lies of omission weren’t that bad, he reasoned.

Atlas was looking at himself in the mirror, straightening his tie and fussing over the way the lapels of his jacket sat when he heard the doorbell. His stomach flipped, much to his private embarrassment, and he went to answer the door.

“You’re early,” he said, greeting Jack in with a smile.

“Am I? Sorry,” Jack said sheepishly. “I couldn’t wait.”

Atlas chuckled and blushed just a little at that. “I won’t keep you, then.” He locked the door behind them as they set off towards the metro station. “So…how have you been?” he asked, cursing his own nervousness and inability to think of something more clever to say.

“Fine. Work today seemed to drag on forever,” Jack said.

“I still can’t believe you work in maintenance,” Atlas said, shaking his head.

“Why? You think I’m too dainty and delicate for that line of work?” Jack teased.

“No, it’s just that, well, all the men from Hephaestus I see always look so gruff and angry. You’re not at all like that,” Atlas said with a smile. “Not to mention, I would think Andrew Ryan would want a more noble line of work for his son.”

“There’s nothing shameful about earning one’s livelihood through hard work,” Jack said in his best, most serious impression of his father. The two men couldn’t keep from laughing. “He’s not the type to hand me an executive position just because I’m his son. Not that I’d accept it if he did,” Jack added with obvious distaste.

“You don’t want to run Rapture?” Atlas said sarcastically.

Jack just scoffed in response. “I don’t even want to live here,” he mumbled. Atlas had heard insinuations like that before, but few people dared say those words outright. It was against the ideology of Rapture, not to mention illegal and treasonous. For a second Atlas couldn’t respond. “This’ll be us, then,” Jack said, changing the subject abruptly as they came to the bathysphere station that would take them to High Street. There were other people in the cabin, as well-dressed as they were, and Atlas had sense enough to leave the conversation where it had dropped.

They chatted amicably with the others in the bathysphere until they finally jolted into port at their destination.

 

The restaurant was brightly-lit and ornate, with a view of neon-studded ocean taking up one wall. Atlas and Jack sat at a table among businessmen closing deals and couples navigating similar situations. The place was more posh than Atlas was used to, for sure—just a few days ago he’d been in Pauper’s Drop, handing out food and reassurances. He tried to ignore the part of him that felt guilty—he would tell Jack the full truth soon enough. For now, however, he just wanted to enjoy the evening.

“This place is nice,” Atlas said after they’d sat down.

“Yeah, I come here sometimes with friends. One of my friends, Mark, knows the bartender. Got us a table over there once,” Jack said, pointing to the enormous window. “It felt like sitting on the edge of a cliff.”

Atlas chuckled. “I’m glad we’re over here, then. Much more stable.”

Jack nodded, and a waiter came by for their drink orders. Atlas followed Jack’s lead in just getting water. “I would have gotten wine, but I didn’t want you to think that all our…meetings would involve alcohol,” Jack joked, a little self-consciously. There was a tiny pause before Jack had said the word “meetings,” as if he’d corrected himself mentally. Atlas wondered what word had come into the young man’s head originally.

“I don’t know, I wouldn’t say that our first meeting was a bad one,” Atlas joked. “We certainly were able to do away with some of that just-met awkwardness.”

“That is true,” Jack allowed with a little smile. “Still, though, sorry if I…came on a little strong. And sorry for making you sleep on the sofa,” he chuckled.

“Don’t worry about it. I had fun,” Atlas confessed. “I _am_ glad to see you again, though. Now that you’re sober, I mean,” he said, trying his best to be smooth and confident.

 

They chatted idly, looking over the menu (and each other, but that was more surreptitious) as fish swam past the window and the candle on the table burned down. They placed their orders, and the food arrived in what seemed like no time at all while they were engrossed in conversation. There was a sound like a flashbulb, and a small commotion near the door, but neither of them noticed. Atlas was absorbed in an anecdote Jack was telling about a particularly risqué new show by Sander Cohen.

“And so by the end, everyone’s naked, covered in paint, and they all start wandering into the audience, inviting them to come onstage, and…y’know…”

“Christ, I know he’s a friend of Ryan’s, but Cohen seems like more of a lunatic than an artist, eh?” Atlas said, shaking his head.

“Yeah, well, he’s got free reign to do whatever he likes since he’s one of Rapture’s ‘best and brightest,’” Jack pointed out with not a little derision. “Being in Ryan's good books goes a long way, no matter what he says about merit and earning your place. It’s still all _who_ you know.”

“And are you in his good books?” Atlas asked carefully.

Jack smirked. “Of course. I’m a perfectly happy little boy and I couldn’t ask for a better father,” he said sarcastically. He scoffed and his face fell, more serious. “He wasn’t that much better before Rapture, from what I remember.”

“How old were you when you came down?” Atlas asked. He tried to imagine Jack as a child, staring out of the bathysphere window, feeling the same sense of bubbling joy that everyone felt seeing the city for the first time.

“Nine. He let me choose for myself. I could either follow him here, or stay topside all by myself, with no money. Sometimes I think that would have been better,” Jack said, smiling a tight smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Christ,” Atlas muttered in disbelief. Even for Ryan, that seemed unscrupulous.

“Yeah. So I understand when people speak out against him. Being related to him only makes me hate him more,” Jack grumbled. “He’s still got this idea that I’m going to take over Ryan Industries, though. Says that it’s good I’m living on my own, working for myself. It will make me more of a _man._ Then some day I’ll get a surge of family pride and come take my rightful place in the family business. Something like that,” Jack sighed.

“Well, remember me when you get to the top, won’t ya?” Atlas joked. He knew he should probably bring up his own qualms with Ryan, and the charity work he’d done, defying the ideologies of Rapture, but he didn’t want to bring up such a heavy topic just yet. He pushed away the feeling of guilt that he knew stemmed from his selfishness.

A waiter came to settle their bill, and Jack snatched it up before Atlas even had a chance to react. “You don’t have to do that,” Atlas said modestly as Jack paid.

“I want to,” Jack insisted. “I owe you.”

“I’ve told you, it was no trouble letting you stay over. You don’t owe me anything,” Atlas said. The waiter, not interested in the soft smiles they were giving one another across the small table, receded to the back of the restaurant.

“Well then, you can pay next time,” Jack suggested.

The waiter brought Jack change, and they stood from the table, leaving the restaurant and heading out into the now-dimmed light of High Street. One thing that always amused Atlas was the way the engineers rigged the city lights to dim in the evenings, as if to echo the faraway sun. It was a sad facsimile of the world they’d all left, wholeheartedly or otherwise.

“Would you like to take a walk or something?” Jack asked. “I don’t feel like heading home yet, if I’m honest,” he confessed with a little smile.

Atlas controlled himself, not wanting to betray just how endearing Jack was. _God, I’ve fallen hard for him, haven’t I?_ The thought flashed through his mind. “Yeah, that sounds nice,” he answered. He recalled their previous meeting, when Jack had been drunk and asked Atlas to kiss him. He wondered if that offer still stood, now that Jack was sober.

The pair walked down the street, passing fewer and fewer people as they went along. It was getting late, after all, and most of Rapture’s nightlife was concentrated outside of the posh districts. “What was it like for you? Coming down here, I mean,” Jack asked.

Atlas thought for a second. “Well, I was really excited at first. Like everyone, I suppose. I, ah, didn’t have much keeping me on the surface, and so when I heard about this place… Everyone had such big dreams, those first few years,” he reminisced quietly, almost to himself. Sure, some people had achieved great things in Rapture, but an even bigger proportion of people were worse off than ever before. Atlas didn’t often let his thoughts take such a maudlin bent. He preferred thinking of constructive things, how he could help people. Dwelling on the tragedy of it all wasn’t helpful, and he tried to pull himself out of his own thoughts.

“Do you regret coming here?” Jack asked as they strolled into a corridor. The tile rung under their feet, and the potted plants that stood sentry every few feet seemed strikingly artificial.

“I don’t know. I doubt I’d be much better off up there. I’d just be looking at clouds though the windows rather than fish,” Atlas pointed out. “And not to mention—” He cut himself off abruptly, earning a curious glance from Jack. Summoning up his courage, Atlas continued. “Well, not to mention, if I hadn’t come down here, I’d have never met you.”

Flattered, Jack blushed and smiled down at the floor. “I suppose we should be thankful, then, shouldn’t we?” he asked, looking back up at Atlas with a little uncertainty.

It felt like there was a weight hanging in the air between them. The corridor was nearly empty, with only a pair of women in clacking heels and a short, seedy-looking man lingering around. Atlas put a hand on Jack’s arm and took a step closer to him. He leaned in and kissed him, expecting every second that Jack would pull away in revulsion or rage.

But that didn’t happen. Atlas, nervous, pulled away after just a swift kiss, but Jack’s lips found Atlas’ again before they’d been parted for long. Everything else in the world seemed to fade away: the chill that permeated the ocean wall next to them, the receding clack of footsteps, an odd popping sound, and the dim but garish lights all blurred in Atlas’ mind. All he cared to feel was Jack’s lips moving ever so slightly against his own, and the way Jack slowly reached out to hold Atlas’ free hand.

Finally, the two parted and caught each others’ eyes. Atlas felt like he should say something witty, but his mind was reeling too much for that. He just smiled, and Jack did likewise.

“I thought I had put you off the other night. Come on too strong, or something,” Jack confessed quietly.

“No, no, I just…didn’t want to take advantage, or anything. I didn’t want you to wake up and regret it,” Atlas explained. They were standing close together, absentmindedly holding onto one another. Now Atlas understood what Jack had said about dancing. It was nice, being this close to someone.

“I won’t regret it,” Jack assured him, leaning in for another kiss.

 


	4. News

They had wandered around the city for a while after that, pulling each other into darkened corners to kiss, giggling at the immaturity of it all. Both of them felt blissful, like they’d suddenly discovered something that had been missing their whole lives.

The night felt like it was suspended in time, like it was simultaneously flying by and standing still. But Atlas eventually caught sight of a clock that told him it was nearing one o’clock in the morning. He sighed heavily, knowing that they’d have to part sooner or later. “The two of us have work in the morning,” Jack said, as if reading Atlas’ mind.

“It wouldn’t really fit the spirit of Rapture for me to say we should call in sick, would it?” Atlas joked. He’d known people so committed to their jobs, so eager for their next paycheck, that they came to work even when they could hardly stand.

Jack smiled at him as he took a step closer, brushing their shoulders together as they walked hand in hand. “And here I thought it was young people who were the irresponsible ones,” he chided.

Atlas laughed at that. “Can you blame me?”

Jack blushed. “I’ll call you. We can go out again soon. Or stay in. Whatever you like,” he said almost bashfully, breaking eye contact and looking down at the grey tiles of the floor. They were near the district where Atlas’ apartment was, and where they would have to part. Atlas felt his heart flutter at Jack’s suggestion, and part of him wished that they could be reckless and impetuous. But he didn’t want to rush things. What was happening between himself and Jack was too good to mess up, Atlas knew.

“That sounds good,” Atlas said, stopping at the junction where they were to go their separate ways. “I had a lot of fun tonight.”

“Me too,” Jack said, taking a step closer as he faced Atlas, putting a hand on the back of the older man’s neck to pull him closer into a kiss.

Though part of Atlas told him that he was exaggerating, Atlas felt like kissing Jack was better than any other feeling in the world. His stomach fluttered and he couldn’t help smiling as their open mouths met, tongues and lips sliding against one another eagerly and tenderly. Every time they parted, Atlas was, on the one hand, sorry it was over, but on the other he was glad that he could open his eyes and see the slightly dazed, blissful expression on Jack’s face.

“I’ll see you soon, then,” Atlas said quietly, loath to break their embrace.

“Yeah,” said Jack, not moving. A second passed, and they both grinned, then Jack finally stepped back. Atlas’ neck felt cold with the absence of the younger man’s hand. “Maybe next time we’ll have a date on a night when we don’t have to work in the morning.”

“I don’t think I could stand to not see you again until Friday,” Atlas confessed. “I’ll call you? Or you’ll call me. Or…something.”

They finally managed to say their shy, reluctant goodbyes, and Atlas walked back to his apartment, unable to stop smiling.

* * *

 Atlas was bleary-eyed and groggy for much of the morning, and his head was filled with thoughts of the night before. He replayed all the events, reveling in all that had happened. He didn’t notice the other men on the docks giving him strange looks, and didn’t hear the things they muttered to each other when he was just out of earshot. It wasn’t until that evening, when he was clocking out, that Tom, one of the men who worked alongside him both at the fisheries and in the organizational work against Ryan, came to talk to him.

“You sure do seem happy,” Tom said flatly, in a nearly accusatory tone.

Atlas looked up, raising an eyebrow. Tom wasn’t known for being overly polite, but still, the statement seemed a little out of the blue. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Atlas asked casually.

“Nothin’. I just thought that you’d be more keen on keeping it a secret that you’re cozying up to the fuckin’ bigwigs, is all,” Tom practically spat, his entire body tense and ready to lash out.

“Excuse me?” Atlas sputtered, instantly on guard. He hadn’t given much thought to the way he’d breach the subject with those he organized with, nor with Jack. But somehow Tom knew all about the situation already.

“Listen, you son of a bitch, you know exactly what I’m talkin’ about, don’t fuckin’ lie to me. I read the _Standard_ just like everyone else, and I know that I don’t want anythin’ to do with you no more. Can’t imagine many people will take kindly to your ‘charity work’ now, will they? How long have you been workin’ for Ryan? What’s he got you doin’? Findin’ dissenters? Are you gonna have us carted off to Persephone, like all the rest?”

Atlas went cold as he listened to Tom’s increasingly angry accusations. _How does he know about Jack? What the hell happened?_

“Tom, come over here and give me a hand, will you?”

The voice from the other end of the dock came as a blessing for Atlas; Tom looked as though he was about to start throwing punches, and Atlas didn’t want to say the wrong thing and get caught in a lie, nor did he feel he could tell the whole truth. Tom glared at Atlas a second longer, then sharply turned on his heel and walked off. Atlas gathered his things and quickly left the Fisheries, making his way to a news kiosk. He paid for a copy of the _Rapture Standard_ , practically throwing the coins at the vendor behind the counter in his impatience.

 

> “JACK RYAN AND ATLAS SPOTTED TOGETHER IN HIGH STREET.
> 
> Last night the Bluefin Restaurant in High Street featured two notable diners: Jack Ryan, son of our beloved Andrew Ryan, was seen in the company of a man known only as Atlas, a reported parasite and organizer of altruistic activities in the poorer districts of Rapture. The pair enjoyed a romantic evening, including public displays of affection throughout High Street and the neighboring streets. Two days previous, the two were seen in each others’ company at Atelier Duval, a popular club in Fort Frolic. One can only imagine what Andrew Ryan will have to say about his son’s choice of date. The biggest question from this reporter is, who is double-crossing whom? And how long before these two’s star-crossed-lovers act goes up in smoke?”

Two photos accompanied the article: one of Atlas and Jack dancing together, and another of them in the restaurant. Atlas felt rooted to the spot as he read the short article over again. His mind was reeling. The _Rapture Standard_ had a fairly large readership; word would get out quickly, and there was no way Atlas could stop the spread of gossip. _Jack is going to hear about this. He’s going to read this and learn who I am._ His heart beating frantically in his chest, Atlas roused himself and set off for home, crumpling the newspaper a little in his hand as he fought the urge to break into a sprint. _Maybe he hasn’t seen it yet. Maybe if I call him and tell him in person…_

Atlas’ mind was going a hundred miles an hour. Not only Jack, but the people he worked with would read this. They wouldn’t trust him anymore, they’d think he was leaking information or spying. That’s what Tom thought, and there would certainly be others. He would lose the organization, the friends he’d made doing all the philanthropic work, and Jack. All in one fell, fated swoop. As he walked, he glanced back at the article— _front page, too, where you can’t help but see it_ —and found the name of the author. Stanley Poole. There had to be some way to get to him, to make him retract what he’d written. Maybe it wasn’t too late.

One line from the article haunted the edges of his thoughts. “Who is double-crossing whom?” Atlas didn’t allow himself to even think about the connotations. The idea that Jack was using him was impossible. He couldn’t have been lying the whole time, been faking. What would be the point? To get close to Atlas, to discover the inner workings of the organization and…what? Wait for the perfect moment to call in a raid? Break things apart from the inside? Jack couldn’t have been doing that, working for Ryan the whole time. There was no way. There was just no way.


	5. Romeo and Juliet

Atlas tried his best to appear calm and not to break into a run as he made his way back to his apartment. He needed time to think, time to come up with a plan. There had to be a way to explain things without losing the trust of the people he was trying to help. All those people he’d met in Pauper’s Drop, or in Hestia Chambers, they needed help. And Atlas couldn’t deny that he wanted to be the one to help them, he wanted to shove those acts of altruism in Ryan’s face.

But Jack complicated all of that. Not that Jack seemed like his father’s biggest supporter, but still…people wouldn’t understand that Jack was different. Hell, _Jack_ might not understand what Atlas was doing. After all, what Atlas was doing was radical: he wanted to dismantle all the ideologies that Rapture had been founded on. Atlas was a threat to the status quo, and miles underwater, the status quo was a key method of control.

Atlas’ mind was reeling as he approached his apartment, but he came to a screeching halt when he saw the door already ajar. Someone was inside; he could hear low voices and a scuffling sound, like furniture being moved. With trepidation, Atlas stepped inside.

There were two men in casual clothes inside, searching the place. Furniture had been pushed aside, Atlas’ possessions were scattered about or lying broken on the floor. Clearly the men hadn’t been too careful: the apartment was destroyed. “Who are you?” Atlas called out, though a churning feeling in the pit of his stomach told him he already knew.  

The men looked up at him. They were menacing, and a dark rage began boiling in Atlas’ veins. These were Ryan’s men. He knew it. They approached, carelessly dropping the items they’d been holding. “Did you really think Ryan wouldn’t find out you were spending time with his son?” one of the men—the taller, blond one—asked. “Funny, we’d heard you were smart.”

“Whatever blackmail you’re angling for, it’s not going to work,” the other man said with a thick Spanish accent.

“You’ve got this all wrong,” Atlas said quietly, the threat barely contained in his voice. He stood his ground. “Now get out.”

The men smirked and came closer; Atlas couldn’t help but think of the groups of sharks he’d seen circling schools of smaller fish. _But you’re no small fish, are ya?_ Atlas reminded himself.

“I’m afraid that’s not how this works,” the Spanish man said. He threw a punch, aiming for Atlas’ face. Just in time, Atlas ducked out of the way and moved back, bracing himself just before the blond man ran at him. The man grappled with him, but Atlas held his ground. For all his work in the Fisheries, he was in good shape. And he’d been no stranger to fights like this on the surface. Now, the two strangers crashed through his apartment, landing blows against his ribs and jaw. Atlas fought back, drawing a spray of blood from the blond man’s mouth as he hit him hard enough to dislodge a few teeth.

Atlas kept his arms up, at the ready, and took a step backwards. His foot landed on something—a book or a glass, something that had gotten knocked to the floor—and he stumbled. Taking advantage, the man with the Spanish accent threw him to the ground and kicked him in the ribs. It seemed as though all the breath was suddenly pushed out of Atlas’ lungs, and he gasped for air. Another kick landed against his stomach, followed by the blond man hauling him up to his knees by the hair. Someone punched him in the face, and he collapsed to the floor again, blood pouring out of his split lip and a cut on his face. Atlas tried his best to get up, but the men were relentless—no matter how much he lashed out in retaliation, their punches and kicks continued, unperturbed.

“Alright, Ryan didn’t say we could kill him,” the man with the Spanish accent reminded the other after Atlas stopped trying to get up. The latter aimed one more kick at Atlas, then the two made their way to the door.

“Stay away from Ryan’s son. If we have to come back, we won’t play so nice,” the blond said. The door slammed behind them, and Atlas was left alone. 

* * *

Atlas lost track of how much time passed before he was able to push himself up into a sitting position, then carefully rise to standing. There was blood all over the floor, in addition to the rest of the wreckage in the apartment. Bruises were already forming on his skin; one eye was swollen so much that he could hardly see, and the very act of breathing moved his ribs so much that they screamed out. He limped to the bathroom, grimacing at his awful reflection in the mirror. After washing the blood off as best he could, Atlas changed into a fresh shirt. Everything took significantly more time now, as he had to move slowly in order to not jostle his injuries too much.

After he had done all that, Atlas stood in the living room, leaning against a wall, knowing that if he sat down, he wouldn’t have the energy to get up again. Moving as gingerly as possible, he began straightening up the room. He assumed that the two men had been searching for hard evidence that could be used to incriminate him; luckily, he didn’t keep any of that in his own apartment. But Ryan was interested in him now, and things would only get worse. He had to talk to Jack; maybe if he explained everything, and apologized for the secrecy, Jack would forgive him. They could find out what to do about Ryan. Maybe somehow, things would work out.

This line of thought consumed his mind while he lumbered slowly around his apartment, cleaning up and planning. The sound of the doorbell drew him out of his thoughts. Warily, he went to answer it, opening the door a crack to see who it was first.

“We need to talk. Jesus Christ, what happened to your face?”

It was Ruth Ashton, one of the women who organized food donations and tried to rally people to their cause. Atlas opened the door, and the tall woman didn’t wait to walk past him inside. “What happened here?” she demanded. Ruth was brusque and efficient, one of the reasons Atlas liked her. She was adamant in her beliefs and stood her ground when arguing for them. But she was also one of the most generous, fair people Atlas had ever met. Atlas had often wondered how someone so committed to helping others had ended up in Rapture, but that wasn’t the sort of thing you asked someone. Not many people talked about their previous lives.

“Walked in on some of Ryan’s men searching the place,” Atlas explained shortly.

Ruth pursed her lips as she took a seat on the sofa. “You’ll want to ice that,” she said, gesturing to his black eye. She sighed and shook her head, clearly irritated. Atlas took a seat, waiting for her to begin. “What the hell were you playing at, going out on your own like that? You should have told one of us your plan,” she said, a harsh note in her voice.

Now Atlas sighed. He would have to explain it all, and Ruth certainly would not be happy. “I didn’t have a plan,” he confessed.

She scoffed. “You always have a plan. Do you really trust me so little?” she asked. Atlas was surprised to hear a note of hurt in her voice.

“Of course I trust you. You know how much I appreciate your help. This operation wouldn’t work without you,” he reassured her. She kept her face impassive, and he continued. “I really didn’t have a plan. It was a chance meeting. He was drunk at a club, and we talked. I didn’t even know who he was until later.”

“So…you weren’t going behind me and the others’ backs, cooking up some plan to use him against Ryan?” she asked cautiously.

“No,” Atlas answered earnestly. “There was no plan. I wouldn’t cross you all like that.”

“But you still agreed to see him after you found out he was Ryan’s son,” Ruth said, growing angry again.

“Yes. Look, I know it’s clichéd and all that, but he’s not like the rest of them. He hates Ryan as much as we do,” Atlas argued.

“Jesus Christ. Are you in love with him?” Ruth asked incredulously.

Atlas was silent for a moment, not wanting to admit something that was sure to elicit an explosive reaction. “I know what you’re thinking. I know it’s stupid—”

“Yeah, you bet it is,” Ruth said, chastising him. “The kid wears designer suits. He lives in one of those nice apartments in the posh district. He benefits from Ryan’s name, you can’t deny that. And you’ve still been fucking him.”

“We haven’t…done that,” Atlas said, his jaw set in a hard line.

Ruth rolled her eyes. “I never knew you could be so naïve. You know, I could have handled it if you had gone behind the group’s back and made some kind of hostage plan. I would have gotten over feeling left out. But this is worse. …Atlas, listen. If you’re not using him, you can bet he’s using you. Ryan’s a cunning bastard, he wouldn’t be above using his own son as bait. You _know_ that, you just don’t want to admit it, am I right?”

Atlas didn’t respond. He didn’t trust himself to open his mouth for fear that he would lash out and say something he’d regret. He was already on thin ice with Ruth, and undoubtedly the rest of the group. And he couldn’t deny that there was a part of his brain that agreed with her.

“This is dangerous, and we’re not ready to take on something like this yet. The recruiting is going well, but it’s going to take a lot more people and supplies if we’re going to get an army together and make real change here. We don’t need this Romeo and Juliet bullshit,” Ruth reminded him.

She was right. Atlas knew that. It was selfish of him to hold onto the hope that he could have it all, both Jack and the group who had worked so hard to bring about social change in Rapture. And Atlas knew he had to choose the latter: he was doing work that was _really_ helping people. He’d seen grateful faces at the food distributions, children who hadn’t eaten in days finally being nourished. And when he made speeches for those crowds, he saw hope in their eyes. Things in Rapture will change, he told people, but only if everyone works together. Atlas had to practice what he preached now. He had to leave Jack.

“Look at yourself, at this place, what they did,” Ruth went on, quietly but earnestly, and it was only then that Atlas realized he’d been sucked into his own thoughts for the past few minutes. “We’re going up against enough hardship and opposition. You don’t need to add this problem to your list.”

“You’re right,” Atlas said, clearing his throat when he realized how despondent and weak he’d sounded. “We’re still planning to go to the Drop on Thursday, yeah?”

“Yeah. Usual stuff. Tom and Eddie hit a market the other day, got us some food to distribute,” Ruth said, eyeing Atlas warily as if he was made of glass and liable to shatter any second. “They like you. They’ll all want to talk to you,” she reminded him.

He’d made friends in Pauper’s Drop, single mothers and veterans, and other families down on their luck. He gave speeches sometimes, and people there were always receptive. Now, though, this business with Jack would probably be on everyone’s lips. “I’ll be there.”

Ruth stood, and Atlas followed suit, albeit more slowly. “Take care of yourself,” Ruth said, looking him up and down again. “And come see me if you need help.”

“Yeah. Thanks,” he said, holding out his hand. They shook hands, and he showed her to the door.

“6 o’clock on Thursday,” Ruth reminded him as she left. Atlas nodded, and shut the door behind her, remembering to lock it as well. He surveyed the apartment. There were shards of broken dishes scattered on the floor. The radio that had stood on the table lay smashed on the floor. Torn pages from books lay about, reminding him of snowballs. It was late by now, and Atlas couldn’t summon the strength to clean up anymore; he felt exhausted both physically and mentally. He fixed dinner, showered, and went to bed early, hoping that things would look less bleak in the morning.


	6. Moving Forward

Atlas hadn’t heard from Jack in a few days. That was probably for the best, he thought. Atlas had never told him who he was or what he did, and it had probably come as quite a surprise to him. Jack wouldn’t want to speak to a parasite, someone who so vehemently opposed the philosophy of Rapture. Not to mention the fact that they couldn’t trust each other—the words of the story in the _Standard_ echoed in his mind: _who is double-crossing whom?_ There were too many factors as play in this situation, Atlas decided, but what it boiled down to was that, despite whatever feelings he’d previously had, he could no longer see Jack. Helping the citizens of Rapture was more important than getting laid, as Ruth had so bluntly put it.

And so Atlas ignored the murmurs behind his back at work and at organization meetings. The quickest way to get over someone was to stop thinking about them, he decided, so that’s what he tried to do. He didn’t tell anyone about the dreams he had.

He and Jack, lying side by side in a grassy park, looking up at the clouds and sky. He and Jack, dancing together at a party, heads comfortably on each other’s shoulders. He and Jack, in bed together, their mouths on any bit of the other’s skin they could reach, hands feeling the contour of each other’s bodies—

“Atlas? Are you coming?”

Ruth’s voice pulled him out of his reverie, and he cleared his throat, ashamed of where his mind had been. _Forget him. He’s surely forgotten you already_. He stood up from the seat of the tram car, following Ruth out and into the street. The clapboard sign that declared the district “Pauper’s Drop” loomed over them as they made their way to the square, meeting the others for the rally.

Many of the residents were happy to see them; a line had already started forming, and Brenda, Tom, and Michael were distributing food. Some were chatting in small groups, talking of Ryan’s tyranny and the need for the common folk to rise up against him, things printed on the flyers the group was distributing. Atlas had started the group with the intention of making an army, an organization large enough to take on Ryan and the Council, either verbally or physically. They were on their way: most people in districts like this were getting fed up with the current regime.

Atlas greeted those he passed, making his way to the line to help hand out parcels of food. There were familiar faces in the crowd, people who he’d gotten to know during his time here. Some politely greeted and thanked him, some shared news of their families. Some, as always, kept their eyes downcast, ashamed.

“Hello again, dearie,” an elderly woman said as she approached. Atlas couldn’t help but smile: he’d seen Mrs. Dixon every time he’d set up a rally or distribution in the Drop. The two had talked often, and had become friends. She ran a boarding house with what little money she had received after her husband’s death in the war. Like Atlas, she didn’t have any family in Rapture. But she had always been kind to him, perhaps because of their shared solitude.

“Hello, Mrs. Dixon. Good to see you again,” Atlas said, handing over the parcel of food. “Did you ever get the heating fixed?”

She huffed. “Of course not, lousy thing. It was my house first, then the others along my street, and now more than half the district is freezing our you-know-whats off! But I’ve heard a little rumor that the Council has heard our prayers, and they’re sending a crew from maintenance down. They’re supposed to come tomorrow, in fact.”

“Well, I hope they get it sorted out.”

“We’ll manage somehow. Now, dearie,” she leaned in, almost conspiratorially, “what’s this I read in the papers about you and that young Jack Ryan?”

Atlas sighed out a laugh; this had clearly been her real topic of interest. He should have known that everyone here would be abuzz with gossip. In fact, he could tell that several people who had been standing near him chatting were now oddly silent, waiting to hear his response. “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, yeah?” he lied smoothly, smirking a little. He’d always been able to lie when it counted, and he knew that the only way to keep the people on his side was to make them think he was cunning and capable; that everything he did was part of some bigger plan for revolution. “I meant to use the kid to get to Ryan. Turns out it wasn’t such a good plan,” Atlas said simply with a shrug. It was an easy enough story, and would hopefully placate everyone. Perhaps even Atlas himself could come to believe it.

“Be careful, dear,” Mrs. Dixon warned him, not hiding the fact that she was looking at the scars and bruises that Ryan’s men had left on his face. “The walls have ears, you know. And you’re too precious to be getting hurt.” She gave him a pat on the arm, smiling sadly. It was obvious that she knew the futility of her words: everyone in Rapture got hurt sooner or later, one way or another.

“I’ll do my best,” Atlas said, doing his best to sound upbeat. A miserable mood wouldn’t help anyone; people came around here for consolation and hope, and that’s what Atlas and the others had to give them. The hope they gave included the promise of revolution, of better days to come. It had won many people to their side, and it would be what eventually changed Rapture.

The rally went smoothly; there was always the fear that this would be the time Ryan’s men got to them and turned things violent, but that was not the case that night. They handed out food and flyers, contact information in case anyone wanted to help organize with them. And Atlas gave a speech, which seemed to be well received. There were some hecklers in the crowd, demanding to know what he’d been doing with Jack. Atlas told them what he’d told Mrs. Dixon, and settled the matter definitively:

“Not every choice we make is the best one, but what matters is how we move forward after disappointment. Do you see me hidden away in my apartment, hiding from you all? No! I’m out here today, doing my best to keep my word, to help my brothers and sisters here and throughout Rapture. _This_ is how I’m moving forward! Doing my damnedest to show Ryan that his laws are _lethal_ , and that we’re not going to take his tyranny anymore! Now, are you all with me? Will you help me move Rapture forward?”

The speech was met with cries of support, some of the strongest they’d seen in a while. People took flyers and gave their contact information, filled with venom and ready to help the cause.

“Seems your little mistake is working in our favor,” Tom, the man who worked with Atlas at the Fisheries, came and told him. He didn’t smile; as always, Tom’s face was impassive, almost hostilely so. “We’ve gotten nearly a hundred pledges. Much more than usual.”

“Well, I’m glad something good came out of it,” Atlas sighed.

Tom put out his hand and Atlas, somewhat surprised, shook it. “You’re firing people up so much, you better hope they don’t turn that fire on you one day,” Tom said, leaning in to speak in Atlas’ ear. With that, he stalked off.

“Give me a hand with these?” Ruth asked as she lifted a crate of their supplies. Atlas was pulled out of his stupor, and he went to help her clear everything away. “You put a good spin on that,” she said lowly while they worked. “Well done.”

“Thanks,” Atlas said flatly.

“You’re doing the right thing, you know. Best to put this whole thing behind you,” Ruth advised.

“Well how the hell am I supposed to do that if you keep fucking bringing it up?” Atlas spat, lashing out at her in annoyance. She didn’t react, just raised an eyebrow. Atlas sighed, letting his annoyance die down as best he could. _It’s not her fault_ , he reminded himself. “Sorry. I just can’t wait for something else to happen so that people will quit asking me about what happened with Jack,” he muttered, frustrated.

“Hey, careful what you wish for,” Ruth reminded him with a little smile. “Now, come on. Let’s get back to HQ.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the short chapter, but the next one is going to be a doozy, I promise! ;)


	7. Obituary

 

> A HEARTBROKEN HERMIT: JACK RYAN REMAINS ASOCIAL AFTER ATLAS’ INTENTIONS REVEALED.
> 
> Nearly a week after this paper ran an article speculating on the heir to Rapture’s relationship with Atlas, the known altruist and rebel, it seems the facts have finally come to light. At a rally yesterday evening in Pauper’s Drop, Atlas himself told listeners that he had originally planned to use our own Jack Ryan to “get to” his father. It seems that Jack Ryan was unaware of his lover’s true identity. Ever since our article, the young man has been unavailable for comment: very seldom does he leave his apartment in Athena’s Glory, other than for his work shifts, where he reportedly does not speak to his coworkers unless absolutely necessary. According to a personal friend of Jack’s who asked to remain unnamed, “he hasn’t spoken to any of [his friends] in a week, ever since he met that guy. And now, with learning who he is, getting duped like that, I’m sure he’s hurting. It’s awful. Jack’s a real nice guy, and it just goes to show how ruthless and corrupt Atlas and his gang of parasites are, that they’d use him like that.” It is unclear at this time whether Jack’s asocial behavior stems from heartbreak or anger. And one can only guess what sort of plan Atlas had in mind, and why he abandoned it. All that can be said is that, while breakups are never easy, Jack Ryan must surely feel relieved that he avoided being used in a parasite’s nefarious plot to take over Rapture. As for the threat that Atlas poses to our fair city, we must all remain vigilant for dissension—the Council reminds you to report any suspicious behavior.

Atlas tossed the newspaper down onto the kitchen table in disgust. The small mentions in the gossip columns were bad enough, but he and Jack were yet again front page news the morning after the rally. Granted, it was just a small piece on the bottom of the page this time, not smack in the middle, but it was still irritating. And to think they had followed Jack around like that, spied on him, made Atlas’ blood run hot in his veins. In Rapture, any out of the ordinary behavior was suspect, and now apparently Jack was on the paparazzi’s watch list. He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. _You shouldn’t care. You should have washed your hands of all of this by now_ , he reminded himself.

But it wasn’t that easy. Atlas couldn’t help thinking about Jack. _I miss him_ , a quiet voice in Atlas’ head whispered _._ Try as he might to stifle that voice, Atlas just couldn’t. He leaned against the kitchen counter, deep in thought. He’d tried so hard to forget about Jack, but something kept calling his mind back to him. Walking through the city, holding hands and kissing like smitten teenagers. Jack waking up in his bed, groggy, with his hair sticking up all over. Jack in his suit, smiling shyly across the table during their date. The dance they’d shared on the night they first met. Atlas just couldn’t give up on him, despite knowing it was selfish to fall in love with his enemy’s son. The whole situation was reckless and riddled Atlas with guilt. He ran his hands over his face as if to wake himself up, spur himself into action so he could—even if only momentarily—forget the thought of Jack holed up in his apartment, alone.

The kettle on the stove began to whistle, and Atlas was called back to earth, remembering that he had been preparing food for breakfast. There was to be a shipment that day, of fish as well as other necessities from the surface (it amused Atlas to no end to see Ryan’s irritation at being so dependent on the surface still), and there would be many crates to unload and inventory. The prospect of hard work pleased him; it would occupy his mind for a while, at least.

Things had improved at work, at least. Many of the men there were sympathizers, who supported Atlas’ cause in what small ways they could while trying to avoid Ryan Security. The balance of fear and frustration hadn’t yet tipped in Atlas’ favor, but he knew it would soon. People would get fed up with Ryan’s lies and finally listen. But for now, Atlas and Tom kept the whispers of dissent alive at the Fisheries; the two covertly spread word of rallies, and passed out pamphlets when the bosses weren’t around. Word was getting out, and Atlas’ cause was growing. The business with Jack had made some people uneasy, especially because their trust was so tenuous. But people were forgetting, and, hopefully, forgiving. Atlas suspected he had Tom to thank for that: when the intimidating man chose to speak, he could be incredibly convincing.

At the end of the day, he walked home, as usual. It was late in the evening; he’d stayed overtime to help finish up the job. His boss had praised him and the others, calling them “true Rapture men,” for going above and beyond to get the job done. But in truth, Atlas had just done it to avoid going home to an empty apartment and no distractions. The lights in the streets had dimmed a little, mimicking (or perhaps mocking) the sun. The fluorescent lights of shops and restaurants glowed as he passed, accompanied by the tinkling sound of conversations. Atlas passed a newsstand, barely registering the group of people clustered around, speaking in hushed, almost reverent tones as they read the evening edition of the paper.

“Such a shame, isn’t it?”

“He was so young, too, poor thing.”

“Happens to the best of us too, I suppose.”

Atlas lifted his head, glancing at the headline out of habit more than anything. He stopped in his tracks, nearly causing someone behind him to run into him. The blood in his veins seemed to run cold, and he stood at the kiosk with an open mouth, too stunned to move. 

> RAPTURE MOURNS: JACK RYAN DECEASED AT AGE 23.

The people around began to take notice of him and stare. This finally roused Atlas, and he fished in his pocket for change, slamming a couple of coins onto the plastic counter before taking a copy of the _Standard_ and scanning the article.

 

> It is with great sorrow that we report the death of Jack Ryan, son of Andrew Ryan. Jack came to Rapture with his father when he was nine years old, and has spent the past several years working for the maintenance crew. He was found dead in his apartment at Athena’s Glory this evening, after missing work. Mark Chambers, a longtime friend of the deceased, let himself into the apartment today around 6:30pm, after not hearing from Jack for several days. Officers from Ryan Security arrived on the scene within minutes of Chambers’ distressed call. Details as to the cause of death have not been released, but Ryan Security has clarified that this was clearly a suicide.
> 
> Our hearts are with Andrew Ryan, Jack’s only surviving family, and the entirety of Rapture as we mourn the loss of one of our best and brightest. 

It felt as if all the air in Atlas’ lungs had been kicked out of him. He closed his eyes, forcing himself to breathe normally as he read the article— _obituary_ —again. It didn’t seem real. Jack had seemed so happy when they’d met. _But we haven’t spoken in a week. Maybe…_ Atlas took a deep breath, trying to shut down his mind. He didn’t want to think about all this, not here where all these people were already giving him strange looks.

Trying to keep his face as blank as possible, Atlas pushed past the small crowd and fought the urge to run back home.

* * *

_It’s my fault. I should have told him who I was, I should have talked to him after that article was published. I should have tried to make things work, or at least let him down gently. Christ, I thought I was doing the right thing, I thought this would be the easiest way, and now he’s dead, he killed himself, and it’s all my fault— I’m so sorry, Jack, I’m so sorry—_

Atlas had sunk down onto the sofa in his dark apartment, holding his head in his hands and trying to process everything. A part of his mind told him he was being irrational, that Jack couldn’t possibly have taken his own life just because of Atlas. There had to be other factors, but Atlas’ guilt wouldn’t let him think about what those could be. His breath came in ragged gasps, and tears streamed down his face. _This isn’t fair. I want another chance. I never got to explain things to him._

Unable to contain himself, Atlas shot up from the sofa, pacing around the room as he groaned through gritted teeth. “Fuck!” he finally shouted, punching the wall of his living room. He needed an outlet, some way to expunge all the thoughts that were choking him. “Fuck!” He beat his fists against the wall, relishing the pain he felt. He turned sharply and with two strides crossed the room, picking up a pillow from the sofa. He pressed it to his face and screamed, the sound animalistic and violent. He sank to his knees, head resting on the end table, feeling exhausted.

Some time passed—Atlas didn’t bother to look at the clock—before he finally stood up with a shaky breath. He didn’t know what he wanted to do—cry, scream, break everything in his apartment. All he knew was that he didn’t want to be alone. It was too much. He perfunctorily straightened himself up and left the apartment, locking the door behind him, and headed for Ruth’s. She may not have liked Jack much, but she would be able to tell him what he needed to hear right now, whatever that was.

He walked with his eyes downcast, feeling stunned and raw around the edges, like a newly broken shard of glass. Upon reaching Ruth’s building, just a few minutes away from his own, he looked up, and was surprised to see Tom standing at the door, locking up.

“What are you doing here?” Atlas asked. His voice sounded scratchy, probably as a result of how tight his throat felt.

“Getting a few things for Ruth. She’s at headquarters, planning to stay the night,” Tom explained, holding up a bag to show him. He paused a second, looking Atlas over. Tom had never been one to display any tenderness; he had sometimes been downright mean to Atlas and some of the others working for the cause. But he was dedicated and efficient, so Atlas had, for the most part, looked past that. But now, given the circumstances, Tom was one of the last people Atlas felt comfortable around. “You’ve seen the news?” Tom asked.

“Yes,” Atlas said flatly, hoping Tom would know better than to discuss it with him.

“Come with me. We’ve got a lot to talk about.”

Atlas scoffed. All that they would want to talk about would be what to do next, how to strike at Ryan while he was in mourning—or at least putting on a show of it. Atlas didn’t feel up to that right now. He wouldn’t be of any use, he could hardly think straight at the moment. “I’ll pass. See you tomorrow,” he said, turning away.

“Atlas,” Tom caught his wrist, holding him and making him turn. Something had changed: the look in Tom’s eyes was one of sympathy, not of derision. The unfamiliar expression was enough to make Atlas stop and listen. “You came here to talk to Ruth, yeah? So let’s go talk to her. She wants to see you. She said you shouldn’t be left alone.”

“Am I going to be under guard now?” Atlas asked sarcastically. Nevertheless, he knew Tom was right. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair before turning and setting off. “Come on, then,” he muttered to Tom.

The two walked in silence to Hestia Chambers and up to the floor the group used as headquarters. Ruth, Brenda, Michael—most of those who regularly organized with the group were there, drawing up flyers, sorting out supplies, making posters. Everyone was hard at work, and few of them made eye contact with Atlas.

“Hey,” Ruth greeted him, nodding to Tom and taking the bag from him. “Take it you’ve heard the news.”

“What did you call me here for?” Atlas asked defensively. Ruth had never liked Jack; he didn’t want to hear her opinions on his death. He regretted leaving his own apartment now.

“We’ve all been having a discussion, talking things over, you know,” Ruth said. Atlas crossed his arms and remained silent, waiting for her to go on. “A lot has changed. We’re going to have to act, do something big. But for now…we’ve taken on a new member. A regular, someone to help with planning, not just one of the fair-weather folks that join up after rallies.”

“You did this without telling me?” Atlas asked, raising an eyebrow. It was understood that he was the leader of the group, and that he oversaw its operations. Ruth, the second-in-command, worked closely with him, and there were a few others (Tom and Brenda, for example) who consistently helped out, who were trusted and relied on. Then, below them, were the average folks who came and went, and who were told information on a strict need-to-know basis. Atlas was wary of a new face entering into the operation, especially if he hadn’t been consulted.

“We all discussed it. Took a vote. Come here, I want you to meet him.” Ruth nonchalantly led him into the next room where a few people sat at a table, copying out pamphlets.

Atlas stopped in his tracks. He recognized the new man sitting at the table. It was Jack.

“Atlas, meet our newest recruit, Jack Wynand.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave comments! I need motivation!


	8. Old Friends, New Friends

“Jack…?” Atlas repeated, feeling as though he were in a daze. Not that long ago he’d been tearing around his apartment, cursing himself for Jack’s death, and now the man stood before him, looking sheepish and scared but very much alive. “You… What the fuck is going on?” Atlas asked, looking to Ruth for an explanation.

“He came to us last night,” Ruth began. “Asked for a private meeting with me.”

“I’m surprised the others didn’t jump you as soon as you came through the door,” Atlas mumbled as he took a seat. His eyes fixed on Jack, looking him over as if turning away would make the man disappear. Jack was wringing his hands, and his shoulders were tense as if he was trying to take up as little space as possible. But despite his obvious signs of unease, Jack was alive.

“Doubt they recognized him,” Ruth cut in before Jack could say anything. “I mean, you didn’t at first, did you?” She had a point; Jack’s picture wasn’t in the papers nearly as much as Ryan’s, who had his face on everything throughout the city. Jack kept a lower profile, and thus could walk through Rapture without much bother. “But we still need to be careful. If word about this gets out, we’ll all be in deep shit.”

“What _exactly_ is going on? I still don’t…” Atlas looked from Jack to Ruth, feeling almost helpless. He didn’t want to question things too much in case he woke up from this dream, but he couldn’t resist seeking some kind of explanation.

“I want to work with you,” Jack said, finally speaking for himself. He was quiet, as if afraid of Atlas getting angry. “I…well.” Jack stopped and took a breath, as if steeling himself to explain everything. “Ryan’s about as good a father as he is ruler. I never wanted to be his son; I’ve never felt any kind of love for him. And then…meeting you made me realize that I can’t go on living like this, under his thumb, in his shadow. So I found a way out.”

“You…faked your death?” Atlas asked, incredulous and impressed at the same time.

Jack just nodded, looking at Atlas as if to gauge his reaction. Ruth spoke up again, “He came here, looking for help. Aisha—you know, dark hair, short girl?—she works in Medical, so I called her about the, ah, stand-in corpse.” Jack looked away, down at the floor. “So now, bottom line is, Wynand here is going to be helping us. And this is the last time we’re ever going to talk about the late Jack Ryan,” Ruth said pointedly. Jack nodded obediently, while Atlas looked at her, trying to process it all. The evening had certainly been a whirlwind. Ruth sighed. “I’ll let you two discuss things,” she said, making for the door.

“Wait,” Atlas said, standing up from the table. “…You wanted me to end this. You said he would bring trouble. Now you trust him?” he asked. Not that he wanted to talk Ruth out of it, but because his mind still felt like it had whiplash.

Ruth looked at Atlas, and the man suddenly felt as if she were somehow seeing _into_ him as well. “You trusted him,” she said simply. “I’ve never known you to make a bad call. And besides,” she said, glancing at Jack, “if he ever tries to cross us, I can always tell the press about how we faked the Prince of Rapture’s death, and that we’re holding him for ransom.” Ruth smiled sweetly as she strode out the door into the next room, but the threat wasn’t lost on either of the two men. But Atlas knew that Jack was being genuine, and that this wasn’t some elaborate plot he’d concocted with Ryan to infiltrate the group.

Atlas heard Jack stand up behind him, and he turned to face the young man. Neither of them spoke—Atlas, for his own part, didn’t know where to begin. He took a few uncertain steps toward Jack, then reached out and put his hand on his shoulder, as if to be sure that the man was solid, real. Atlas smiled, and watched relief flood Jack’s eyes as the young man did the same. Atlas hugged him tightly, closing his eyes and letting himself enjoy the feeling of holding and being held.

“I’m sorry,” Jack whispered. “I wanted to tell you, but there was no time, and if anyone was watching you, they would expect to see you mourning, and—”

“Yeah,” Atlas said. Objectively, Jack had made the right choice—it would have complicated things to try and get a message to Atlas. “I certainly did mourn, though,” he whispered with a hollow laugh. He hugged Jack a little tighter, burying his face in the space between Jack’s neck and shoulder. He thought he’d never hold Jack again.

“I’m sorry,” Jack said again, his voice tight.

They stood like that for a while before Atlas got control of himself enough to stand up straight and face Jack, who was blinking away tears. Atlas smiled and put two fingers underneath Jack’s chin, tilting his face up before kissing him.

They parted all too soon, in Atlas’ opinion, but he’d always felt like that after kissing Jack. Jack took his hand, opened his mouth as if to speak, but then closed it again.

“I love you,” Jack said finally, his voice decisive but still soft, as if he didn’t want the words to carry farther than the small space between them.

Atlas beamed. “Thank god,” he said without thinking. Realizing that that probably wasn’t what Jack wanted to hear, he quickly added, “Because I love you too. So much.”

Jack allowed himself a little smile, but he still looked somewhat sad. Atlas picked up on the way Jack looked down and shifted his body away. “We won’t be able to do this, though. It’s dangerous. You were in love with Jack Ryan. He’s dead. And if anyone sees us together, they might suspect…”

Atlas felt his heart sink. Jack was right, of course; he’d probably thought all this through. They would have to be careful, make sure no one ever caught on to who Jack had once been. “Right,” Atlas said pensively, letting go of Jack’s hand. He wanted to rest, wanted a break from the absurd gamut of emotions he’d been forced to run in the past few hours.

“We can’t be anything more than colleagues, friends. Although, I’m not saying it’s forever,” Jack pointed out softly. “Just until all this calms down. Until people forget Jack Ryan.” He smiled, clearly trying to cheer Atlas up. “And once that happens, we’ll get to fall in love with each other all over again.” Jack looked so hopeful, so confident and ready to assure him that everything would go as planned. Atlas couldn’t help but feel like all that hope was contagious.

He put his arms around Jack’s waist, unwilling to let him go just yet. “One last kiss then?” he asked.

Jack laughed quietly as he put a hand on the back of Atlas’ neck, pulling him closer. “I’m sure it won’t be the last.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading, and sorry for the late (and admittedly short) last update. I sort of struggled with trying to make this ending different from another Jack/Atlas fic I've written (http://archiveofourown.org/works/3625617), so check that one out if you enjoyed this!


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